Robert Tanenbaum - Enemy within

Karp picked up the phone and pushed the speed button for Marlene's private line. It rang a long time before someone, not Marlene, picked it up, a man in fact, whose voice was loud and seemed slurred. There were peculiar noises in the background, thumping music, many voices, punctuated by shouts and whistles. The man said that it was crazy in there, but he'd try to find her. A clunk as the receiver was tossed down.

Shortly, he heard his wife's voice.

"What's going on? It sounds like a party."

"It is a party. We started drinking champoo this morning. You should come over and drink some. You could see distinguished corporate security personnel dancing on the desks in various states of undress. There is someone's tie hanging from my desk lamp. I expect panties to follow."

"This is about Perry?"

"Oh, Perry! Foo on Perry! He is rescued. We is rescued by his rescue. Perry is old news. The IPO went off today. Opened at eight, went to sixty and a quarter, and is hovering at fifty-five and a half. Fifty-five and a half. Fifty fucking five. And a half."

"Is that good or bad for the Jews?" Karp asked. She was clearly drunk, and he felt vexed about it because what he needed now was the calm, sensible, no-bullshit Marlene to succor him and support him and say, sure, take a job that involves no home life to speak of and eighteen-hour days, and I will pick up the emotional slack for you, darling…

"Oh, definitely good, especially those married to Osborne principals who have one point two million options at eight. Listen, Butchie, we're all going out to eat and carouse the night away. Could you do the boys and all?"

"Sure," in a flat voice.

"You're so mahvelous. Lovie love. See you later. Bye."

Karp put down the phone. Into his mind floated an aphorism his mother had often used-the worst thing in life is not getting your heart's desire; the second worst thing is getting it. He had missed her, really missed her ever since he was a child and cancer had closed her eyes for the last time, but he felt an unbearable pang of loss just now, the kind that makes you want to wail "Maaaaaa!"

The next thing that floated up unbidden was a bit of wondrous math: 1.2 million at 55 equals beaucoup, beaucoup buckerooskis. His mind skidded away from it. A ridiculous figure anyway, not real money even, some kind of accounting game. And too bad it had happened today, because he really wanted to talk this through with Marlene. Or did he? Hell, she got to do what she wanted, staying out however long the job took. Why couldn't he? Karp was not at all prone to self-pitying resentment, but he was not immune to it either. He felt a space opening between himself and the woman, and maybe part of what was prying it open was the fantasy money. Into that space rushed thoughts about being back at homicide, about having a real job again, the one job he was born to do. He walked the few steps to Keegan's office and told the DA that, yeah, he'd do it. If it could be fixed, he would fix it.

The next week or so passed in something of a daze for Marlene. Everyone in the office down to the secretaries had gone a little batty. They had set up a television set in the coffee room tuned to a business channel, and there was always a little knot of people around it, cheering and groaning with the movement of OSBN on the Nasdaq. People were not used to having their net worth rise or fall by several thousand dollars in an afternoon, not to speak of the few in the company for whom the daily wiggle was measured in millions.

Of all Marlene's colleagues, none had embraced the new situation with more simple delight than Oleg Sirmenkov.

"What do you think of Boxter by Porsche, Marlene?" he asked her one morning. "Is good car, yes?" He sat on the edge of her desk and flipped his new gold Dunhill on and off.

"A good car, yes. Get a red one. Is what we call a pussy car, Oleg."

He looked dismayed. "What? Is not strong enough the engine, you mean?"

"No, it means beautiful, young girls will come over to you when you drive it, and ignore that you are old and decrepit, and wish for a ride."

"Am not so old and decrepit yet. I can still go to the field with youngsters."

"As in Kosovo."

"Exactly so. And a good thing. Maybe we would not be rich as we are now if Perry and his friends are dead."

"True enough. It was really amazing how you knew just how to find them. I can't get over it."

Sirmenkov shrugged modestly. "We were lucky. Plus, good preparation, good contacts, good operatives." He laughed. "Unlimited bribery as well. But, now, tell me, what are you going to buy? You have so much more than I do, is crime."

"I haven't bought anything. I thought you had to wait six months before selling any stock."

"What? They don't tell you? No, of course, they tell-you was right there next to me."

"I guess I wasn't listening."

"You are so foolish sometime, Marlene, I do not believe you. Is margin account. Margin! See the little man, Mr. Amory. He has set up accounts for all of us."

Indeed, as Marlene discovered via a call and a brief visit, Osborne had arranged for the broker to provide margin accounts secured with stock. Marlene went out at midday, cabbed downtown, had a nice chat with the Toad, who explained that a bank would lend Marlene spending money on the value of her stock. Typically, stock value rose more quickly than interest, so the loan could be financed by selling off small blocks from time to time. What if the stock declined? Marlene wanted to know, and was met with an expression of pity, as for someone worrying whether the earth would ever collide with the moon. Thus assured, she was handed off to Ms. Lipopo, at the private department of Manhattan Trust, and introduced to the pleasures of high-end private banking. No little glass cubicle, exposed to the gaze of the peasantry waiting for tellers; instead, a dark-paneled office, with Edwardian touches and a Kirghiz on the floor. Marlene wondered if they had extruded Ms. Lipopo especially for her, she looked so new and shiny, a slim, golden, thirtyish person of jumbled ethnic antecedents, precisely suitable for personally banking a one-eyed, burnt-out liberal matron. If, Marlene mused, Marlene had been an Irish brickie who had hit the lottery, would that Ms. Lipopo have had a beer gut and a skein of dirty jokes?

The young woman caused Marlene to sign a large number of forms (which, though a lawyer herself, she read only negligently, for who could not trust Ms. Lipopo?) and served coffee and petits fours on fine porcelain. After the signings, Ms. L. turned to her computer terminal, elegant fingers poised. "How much would you want to start with? The limit is fifty percent of market value, but you may want to set up with a lesser amount just for immediate use. Ten percent?"

"That sounds right," said Marlene from Queens, suppressing the "duh."

"At today's prices, let's say five-five." Ms. Lipopo smiled, showing white teeth and lovely pink gums. Everyone was being so nice to Marlene recently. Could it be the money?

"Five-five meaning…?"

"Five point five million." Another charming smile. Ms. Lipopo loved her work.

"Oh, well, yeah, just for my immediate needs," said Marlene, a fine sweat popping out on forehead and upper lip. Shortly thereafter, she left with a nice checkbook bound in genuine black morocco, a little portfolio (ditto) containing a sheaf of forms and densely printed publications, and a credit/debit card of a peculiar dull metallic-gray color, which was apparently the loveliest and most prestigious color a credit card could ever be. No toaster, no mug with the bank logo, but you couldn't have everything, she thought. Or, thinking again, in my case you could, me now being so rich that… the metaphor machine stumbled here. More cold sweat. This was stupid. It's only money. Okay, a lot of money, but still…